her high heels stuck in the mud! The UNHCR, boring by comparison, briefed the group on the previous day’s deliveries and the proposed schedule.
On my first morning meeting, there were three sacks full of shrapnel and a very concerned Steve Potter who asked the Canadian senior NCO Marty, a small, stocky, blustery man with respect for no one, if he could assist in the building of a bunker.
– I’ll give you some engineers and a container. That should be a start. He referred to no one. The decision made, he was as good as his word. Before the morning was out, he had delivered a twenty-foot-long container, and “Project Potter” was underway. The RAF team provided the supervision, the Norwegians in the adjacent hangar, under a tall movement controller, Ralph Iveson provided the sweat. The Canadians provided a mechanical digger.
Steve was obviously good with Meccano sets as a child. I’ll bet he buys his children Legos. He was determined that “his” bunker would be the Hilton of bunkers. Steve did some reconnaissance for a site. He chose a spot near the perimeter fence, close to a manned observation bunker which could provide covering fire whilst we ran to the bunker. He decided that a seventy-metre dash was the furthest away from the hangar that we could risk. X marked the spot. The digging began, and a hole large enough for the container completed. Then the container was lowered into the ground. Logs were placed over the roof of it. The next task was to cover the logs on the roof with sandbags. Here we had a slight problem; we had no sandbags. The French did, but the platoon commander told us that they needed all they had to cover their own fortification which was beginning to rival the Maginot line. Ron and a senior UNHCR person liberated from the French a large quantity of the much-needed bags. It was my only contribution to “Project Potter.”
At the end of the first day, we had protection; by the end of the second, we had protection plus lighting and emergency rations. The RAF Hercules crews decided that we should have a barbecue to celebrate its inauguration. They brought in food and beer from Zagreb.
The Hercules crews deserve a very special mention. They did their job with great courage but always wanted to do more. They had a strict rotation pattern, crews and craft returning to Lyneham after a tour of four weeks. The new crews brought from the UK sufficient meat, sausages and beer for us—both international and local staff—to have a good relaxing party. We never paid for this, they did. They did many other small kindnesses. They made phone calls for refugees, they posted letters, they changed money. I particularly remember Chris Tingay and his crew once finding me looking especially tired. On the next flight he sent up two crates of Pot Noodles, with a little note: “You look weak. Take one twice a day with water.” Water we had. They were delicious, nourishing, and restored our strength. We did not always remember to say thanks at the time but a big thanks now may not be too late.
Two
Sarchapt
The airlift was increasing by the day. We were soon up to fourteen flights a day. On a rough calculation, we reckoned that we needed to bring in about 4,500 tonnes of food a month for the city to survive. Fourteen flights a day brought in about 160. With a bit of luck, we may be able to win. The calculation, however, did not take into account medicine, fuel, and other essentials. We needed road convoys as well as an airlift. Furthermore, we were not allowed to concentrate solely on Sarajevo, pressure was increasing by the day for a convoy to Gorazde. The Government was whipping up enthusiasm amongst the journalists. They had become excited by the story line: “Large city in the middle of Serb held territory, tens of thousands of people besieged and starving.” The story was very similar to Sarajevo, but they had “done” Sarajevo. The Bosnian Government wanted action for the more altruistic reason that their people were dying.
UNHCR was asked to visit President Izetbegovic. I had had the brief meeting at Zagreb airport but this would be my first official visit. The Presidency is in the centre of the city. Normally the entrance is around the back, but for official visits the front door is used. We went by French APC. Vesna Vukovic served as translator. We parked outside the main door on the pavement. The guards checked our identities. Not too difficult in my case, as there were very few Methusaleh look-alikes in Sarajevo.
We were escorted up the wide staircase by the adviser to the President Mr. Somun, whom I felt I knew, as his daughter Leyla worked for us at the airport. She is a graduate in Arabic studies from Sarajevo. Mr. Somun had been an ambassador before the war.
He took us to the great double doors leading to the room where the President met with dignitaries. We were not the only guests. We were ushered in and seated on a huge settee. The reception room was chosen well. It faced the front of the building and had two large windows which were open.
The President arrived. He looked gentle, confused and exhausted. His daughter Sabine was with him. She acts as secretary and sometimes translator. He understands English and in a one to one conversation is prepared to use English, but he prefers to use a translator. He sat in the corner of one settee. The shelling began, and there were two loud bangs very close to where we were. The president appeared not to notice them. He never even paused in his speech. He wanted to discuss aid in general and aid to Gorazde in particular. He had with him a senior officer Hadzihasanovic. The Bosnian Government was not strong on military ranks, so it was safest to address them as “commander.” Enver Hadzihasanovic I was later to meet in Zenica and again back in Sarajevo. He is one of the ablest Bosnian leaders. Handsome, silver haired, and charming.
We were briefed on the reports coming out of Gorazde. They were horrendous. A hospital with no medicine. A population with no food. The commander discussed the options for getting aid into Gorazde. The Bosnian army had a mule route. But it could take very little and was frequently attacked by the Serbs.
I’ll bet it is—I thought to myself. It was an open secret that the mule route took in mainly ammunition for the defenders of the town.
The president was strong—There is not enough aid for Sarajevo, but Gorazde is of a higher priority. I could see that it was. Strategically the last thing the president wanted was major towns to fall to the Serbs. Also, he was testing the strength and will of the UN and its agencies. It was a short meeting.
The following day was my return visit to the office of Mr. Pamuk for a meeting with the five to discuss distribution. We had to pass through shelling, which was heavy and dangerously close. It was my first trip at the wheel of the car. Leyla Hrasnica was my translator and guide. She showed to me the “back route,” the quieter one. We arrived at the Municipality a few minutes late. The building had taken a few hits, and there was machine gun fire bouncing off the walls. As I parked the car under the direction of Leyla, I had two thoughts which I voiced.
– Leyla, if that was the quiet route, what would the other route have been like?
– The shelling would have been a little closer, but…—she added with a smile—we would have been a little quicker.
– Leyla, just as a point of interest, when are conditions considered to be too bad to cancel a meeting?
– When the other side cancels.
We passed the empty offices and arrived at Mr. Pamuk’s. He was there. He had two other people with him. Two of the five. He introduced them to me. One was Professor Kljic, an economist who was to be the architect of the distribution plan after consultation with us.
There was a tremendous bang as a mortar hit the base of the building. We waited a few minutes more for the other three to arrive. The professor and I began to talk. He was hoping that I would have a blueprint for feeding the city. He was not to know that I was as confused and as overwhelmed as he was. I explained that my own experience was with refugee camps where I had been responsible for almost one hundred thousand people—a little exaggeration, but I thought acceptable in the circumstances.
Mr. Pamuk wanted to know for how long the Sarajevo airlift was guaranteed. I was able to answer clearly and truthfully that it had been funded for one month. We began discussing the Berlin Airlift. There was a knock at the door and the secretary to Mr. Pamuk came in, we were not to wait for the